


Kingfishers Catch Fire

by FaustianAspirant



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaustianAspirant/pseuds/FaustianAspirant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three and a half years following the events of Cascade, the kids and trolls are plunged into an entirely new world: not Earth, or even Alternia, but another game construct. Allies are separated; prophecies dispensed; factions solidify into hostile camps - and political intrigue becomes the order of the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“You’re not irrelevant, you know. Not at all! What you have to do is really very mission critical.” And she smiles; a wide, watermelon slice of a grin that licks at both edges of her face._

 _“Yeah?” sneers Davesprite, awash with scepticism. “Care to fill me in? Give me the lowdown on what your vague-as-fuck oracles have to say about me? Tell it to me straight, now. Am I the one who has to vanquish the Dark Lord? Or are we working more in the realms of Holy Grail territory?” He is pacing now: a veritable one-man song and dance routine in the empty air. “Wait, no. I get it. My God-given task is to sit back and put serious effort into not fucking things up spectacularly, isn’t it. To basically cease being a spectacle altogether.” And he flings the words like pebbles, and then they are gone, receding into the night wind like so much rubble – because really, no-one ever doubted that he would listen._

 _Aradia nods with strange dignity – eyes lidded, pensive. Tacit acknowledgement of his right to protest. “They say you have to kill Karkat Vantas.”_

 _A beat._

 _“… The fuck is Karkat Vantas?” Because, really, there is little else to be said besides perhaps_ ah, right, murder. That’s good, then. __

_“Oh, I forgot! You were never introduced. That’s OK! In fact, it’s probably better.” She shrugs, and her diaphanous wings tremble correspondingly. “You’ll know what to do soon enough. But you have to find him first.”_

-

The first time, thinks Karkat, was comparatively straightforward. Or, at least, it lacked any of the emotional trappings with which later encounters were to be strewn: steely and clean, framed only with faint regret for the death of a virtual stranger, and dull anticipation at the thought of one’s own. A resigned clash of metal, followed by the inevitable skewering. As far as fate goes, he has been dealt considerably worse.

Not so much the next few times. Particularly when factoring in the obvious disillusionment of repeating the same experiment, pointlessly, ad nauseum – but Aradia tilted her head, birdlike, to one side and said _keep trying_ , and he can only assume there was some significance to the request. Perhaps he was being too optimistic.

His husktop gives an insistent chime.

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG]

TG: vantas for once in my life i am actually being some approximation of serious  
TG: let me talk to him    
CG: NOT A CLUCKBEAST’S CHANCE IN AN ABATTOIR, STRIDER. 

carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling turntechGodhead [TG]

And now _this_ , which he had managed to prevent for the best part of a sweep – but honestly, Karkat has never been particularly good at keeping secrets, or remaining solitary. So yes. There’s that, and _that_ was inevitable.

“Who are you talking to?” Davesprite asks, flatly, stirring at the tepid embers of the fire with a damp stick. His feathers flush brighter in the brief, crackling glow before the flare subsides.

“A brick wall,” answers Karkat, with a snort. And the subject is summarily dropped.

-

 _The trees murmur in the freezing air, and the wind teases the long grass in brief, subtle gusts. Clusters of slender towers crown distant hills with silver, but the rest is desolation._

 _“And how,” says Davesprite, deliberately, “am I supposed to find him?”_

-

Fringing the edge of the mountains stand a frame of slender buildings, like steely gray sugar crystals – yet the surrounding wilderness of forest remains untouched by any form of architecture. That is, if one were to eye the panorama without suspicion. Yet enclosed by a thicket of evergreens dwells a solitary warehouse, decidedly removed from the skyline of the distant city (a city resembling the columns of Prospit and Derse, were one to grab fistfuls of each and crush them in a colossal blender, drizzling the glassy residue about the landscape.)

The building itself is squat, gray and unremarkable; quite blatantly, it carries an aura of disingenuous unobtrusiveness. It is quite palpably a secret hideout. If it possessed shame and a central nervous system, it would have blushed at its own lack of subtlety.

Fortunately, its inhabitants are plagued by none of the former.

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG]

TG: ok so you know this is really dumb and egotistical right  
TG: the rest of us are at least trying to disregard all our massive fucking hero complexes for all of three seconds  
TG: which by the way is like the most narcissistic and screwy mental deficiency anyone can have

 _Answer, goddamnit._

Dave runs a frustrated hand through his hair, and darts a glance about the room. Sollux, Feferi, Equius and Eridan are engrossed in a rather turbulent game of troll poker, but Vriska turns to raise an eyebrow. He allows nary a twitch in response.

TG: its not even a fucking complex  
TG: its just something that dumb people like to mention in relation to bigger idiots in moments of especial moronitude  
TG: and whilst the entire world loses about a three brain cells apiece every time someone says the phrase and means it  
TG: that doesnt actually give its usage any particular validity

 _Answer me, you gutless sack of shit._

TG: so feel free to duck behind classifications carved entirely out of trashy fantasy novels  
TG: but dont expect the rest of us to march in tune with that hackneyed chosen one vibe youre cultivating  
TG: this is me  
TG: rsvp-ing my invitation to the idiot parade  
TG: the answer is hell no  
TG: the answer was always hell no  
TG: open up the monogrammed envelope from the strider estate and you will find a calling card with ‘hell no’ emblazoned on it in calligraphic fucking script   
CG: ARE YOU FINISHED YET?  
CG: ARE YOU EVEN CLOSE TO BEING FINISHED YET?

Feferi wins a round. Cackling in counterpoint to the groans of all, she scrapes her winnings – three boonbucks, two packets of gushers and a shiny blue rock – towards her, and motions to deal another hand.

 _Finally._

TG: what im saying is  
TG: how come you get a free pass to feed and nurture all your pet issues like some sort of depressive cat lady  
TG: whilst the rest of us had to ditch those suckers at the pound several years back  
TG: i mean  
TG: this just goes beyond the pathological and straight into new realms of irrationality  
TG: lalonde would attain psychomanipulative nirvana after five seconds of talking with you  
TG: that is if she wasnt too busy trying to forcibly ram into a million hard grey heads that two plus two is five   
CG: ALL I’M SEEING HERE ARE GROUPS OF RANDOMLY ASSEMBLED, VAGUELY ASSOCIATED WORDS.  
CG: NOT PARTICULARLY PERSUASIVE ONES, EITHER.  
CG: LOOK  
CG: FOR STARTERS, THIS WAS NEVER AN IDIOT PARADE TO WHICH YOU WERE ACTUALLY INVITED.  
CG: JUST, YOU KNOW. THROWING THAT OUT THERE.  
CG: ALSO, YOU ARE AWARE THAT YOU’VE BEEN MAKING THE SAME ARGUMENT FOR CLOSE TO AN ENTIRE SWEEP NOW, RIGHT?  
CG: I MEAN, THE METAPHORS ARE ALWAYS DIFFERENT, BUT THE SUBSTANCE IS THE SAME.  
CG: IT IS QUITE POSSIBLY THE UNIVERSE’S MOST TRIUMPHANT EXERCISE IN FUTILITY.  
CG: AND IT’S NOT AS THOUGH TODAY IS GOING TO BE EIGHTY SEVENTH TIME LUCKY.  
CG: BUT BY ALL MEANS, TRY AGAIN IN A WEEK’S TIME.  
CG: IT’S NOT LIKE I’M GOING ANYWHERE.  
CG: YOU’D THINK I’D BE ABLE TO AT LEAST SUCCEED AT A LITTLE BASIC SELF DESTRUCTION, BUT NOOO.  
CG: APPARENTLY THAT, MUCH LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE I DEIGN TO ATTEMPT, IS BEYOND ME.    
TG: ok no  
TG: just  
TG: stop  
TG: i am not your goddamn guidance councillor vantas  
TG: time to sweep all those whiny little emotional hang ups back into the corner like a good little pompous trollfreak and let me speak to myself already    
CG: HE’S NOT YOU, YOU UTTER BUFFOON.    
TG: oh my god  
TG: who cares  
TG: just put the feathery douche online would you   
CG: GOODBYE, DAVE.  
CG: TALK TO YOU NEXT WEEK.    
TG: vantas 

carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling turntechGodhead [TG]

TG: VANTAS yeah youre not listening whatever fine

Dave closes pesterchum, adjusts his shades and completely fails to resist the urge to slam his head against the wall about a dozen times in wordless fury. The corrugated metal veritably sings on impact. It is testament to the professionalism of the team that none of them seem to accept this as reason for concern. Sollux, in fact, gives a low chuckle.

Calmly drawing a hand across his forehead, Dave turns to face them and sits.

“Karkat, or Rose?” ventures Feferi.

“He throws furniture when it’s Rose,” Vriska reminds her, with an elaborate toss of the hair.

Impish half-smile. “Fair point.”

Three and half years since the collapse of everything, Dave has rather perfected the art of utter impassivity. The most useful discovery of his sixteen-year sojourn in this world (and various others) was the realisation that one could perform various wanton acts of casual destruction and still remain deadpan, provided one was possessed with the requisite amount of poise. Which he was. Is. This is the crux of his new philosophy which he has been rolling with ever since - and, actually, three and a half years since the collapse of everything, he has perfected an awful lot.

With a silence that borders on tangible, Dave leans back in his seat.

The quiet ripples, effervesces and spills over into spontaneous babble, as the team’s short-lived curiosity is stretched to its utmost and the card game resumes.  
This is nothing if not normal.

Vriska still eyes him appraisingly from the other end of the room. He meets her gaze full on, out of principle more than anything else. Not that she can tell; the shades see to that. Rolling her eyes with a derisive titter, she turns away again.

 _If they have access everything we say, and everything we write - she had said - and if there’s no way of preventing that, then it’s soooooooo obvious what we’ve got to do. Resist! What’s stopping us from fighting?_

 _Whoa, simmer down, Trollsky, he told her. I’m not about to lead any oppressed masses to victory anytime soon, OK? You can raise the flag of freedom high without my help._

 _Like hell we can, and you know it! All this stupid deliberation is just you trying to sneak in a few snark points before we begin to beat the living crap out of the system._

 _Yeah, well. Just saying, if I can’t dance, then I don’t want any part of your cackling, kill-happy regisurp._

 _Dave, she said, fixing him with a steady, concentrated gaze. What._

They have done well for themselves, all in all – especially when one considers the fact that this entire operation was masterminded by a handful of boisterous teenagers rather than a team of experienced freedom fighters. (Terrorists. Whatever.) Indoctrinating the populace with basic enlightenment principles proved to be less of a challenge than first anticipated, though by no means aided by the frequent, uniformly violent interruptions of a none-too-pleased establishment. Turns out when the eye of the law is omnipresent and insatiable in its thirst for information, its subjects do not tend to respond with particular enthusiasm or support with regards to upholding the status quo.

In that respect, it was easy.

The locals possess all the just-so earnestness of the Prospitians and Dersites – whilst their queen exhibits all the sharp discernment of her monochrome predecessors - and, in keeping with the trend as an amalgamation of the two, they have dove-grey exoskeletons of a slightly lighter hue to the skin of the trolls. Dave had not expected much, but as fighters, they are remarkable. They take it seriously. Not all of their supporters live here – they still have a handful of allies dotted about the city, incognito – but, by and large, the sum total of their army is concentrated in flimsy sleeping bags about the crumbling warehouse. Even with the addition of a roof and four walls, largely speaking, it is backpack living – but that’s fine. That is essentially the norm these days.

They are organised, to a degree. Professional. Their current abode – sparse, yet spacious – is the last in a long succession of bases, each summarily stormed and plundered by a group of disgruntled government forces. More often than not, at the instigation of a former ally or two.

Which, really, is an issue he ought to address. Again.

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

TG: paging inspector massacarnage  
TG: inspector do you read me  
TG: we have a critical situation here  
TG: we think there may be some locals still breathing after you razed an entire village to the ground in pursuit of two rebels  
TG: this oversight must be rectified immediately  
TG: what is this some kind of totalitarian kiddie school 

A brief pause, during which Dave exhales gustily and strategically avoids anyone’s eyes. This is all so deeply predictable. And yet.

TG: ok you know im just gonna keep this up till you get off your prim little ass and answer  
TG: oh and dont tell me youre busy caving in seditionists skulls or pulverising the bodies of the unrighteous or whatever you and little miss oral fixation get up to during your shift  
TG: because i know for a fact youre off duty  
TG: so we can carry on pretending youre not reading every word as i type it  
TG: or we can actually try and conduct a conversation  
TG: you know one of those occurrences where one person says something and the other then responds and so on until there is meaningful verbal exchange  
TG: as opposed to consigning the dude on the other end of the line to blank conversationless torpor  
TG: we have this thing in ordinary human society rose  
TG: its called basic conversational etiquette  
TG: incidentally you may not remember this but we also have that thing where you try to keep a check on stuff like indiscriminate fucking slaughter in the name of the autocratic regime youve randomly decided to support  
TG: but well talk about the finer details of political philosophy later  
TG: just  
TG: answer please

With equal predictability, his recalcitrant sibling responds with even less alacrity than the fugitive before her. Which is to say, not at all. With an indignant swipe at the keyboard, Dave closes pesterchum and tries not to seethe.

-

 _“That’s not difficult,” Aradia tells him. “He’s looking for you too, remember! Also, you both have a meeting place. In fact, it is very important that any killing happens there – so no duels to the death until you reach the Plateau!” Unbelievably, she manages to voice this as a sing-song admonishment, rather than phrasing it as it is: one of the niceties attached to the murder of a virtual stranger._

 _Another beat. Davesprite is growing sick of the sound of the wind._

 _Fine then. Consider him cued. “This is the part where I ask ‘what’s the Plateau?’, isn’t it,” he says, dully. “OK. Exposition please.”_

 _Aradia rolls her eyes, good-naturedly. “It’s just a place. I think it’s quicker if I show you. But first you’ll have to wait.”_

 _“Why?”_

 _“I have to talk to Karkat.”_


	2. Chapter 2

Nothing has affected Terezi Pyrope quite so favourably as the decline in her game-given abilities.

With the events of all future timelines now barred to her as before, there is little remaining of the powers she once possessed whilst playing Sgrub – and, admittedly, the shift entailed a certain amount of disorientation. Regardless, it is a loss she can well afford to sustain. A Seer must not allow something so petty as lack of vision to obfuscate her foresight! And, indeed, the initial phase of adjustment bore remarkable resemblance to being blinded all over again; much like the original incident, it supplied a surge of stability she had been unaware she lacked. It sharpens her senses, predicting events the old way: insight grates keenly against her blunted mind, knife-edged and instinctual, and she emerges from its confines quick as a blade. Putting _effort_ into prophecy is integral. And being wrong! Being wrong is important. She has been wrong so many times since, and it has always steadied her, like a detailed map snapping into focus under a glass.

 _So really_ , she said to Rose, _it doesn’t matter, because I like limitations – they’re freeing!_ and Rose told her it was probably pathological.

Light streams through the arched windows of the drawing room in a waft of sugar-spun pastry, falling about her companion’s shoulders as she meditates upon the daily newspaper (a large, patriotic, scratchy-parchment thing.) A tepid glass of masala chai rests beside her elbow; Terezi smells it cooling.

“Rose,” she says, needling the silence. “Rose. Your laptop is whining.”

The corner of her mouth gives a delicate twitch. She does not glance to the sofa where her open computer sits, persistently bleeping. “Then by all means,” she says, “let it continue to lament undisturbed.”

This is pig-headed obstinacy at its most unforgiveable, but Terezi goes ahead and forgives her anyway, because she is benevolent like that. Virtuously, she seizes one of the crumbly cakes that rest on a small blueberry-coloured dish at the centre of the table. She does not know how it is that their house is perpetually stocked with all manner of decorative confectionary – or where Rose finds the time to arrange them all in neat, fussy-tasting geometric patterns on plates – but she is willing to suspend disbelief in the face of the delicious.

“So apparently,” says Rose, after a sizeable stretch of quiet, “next week, our employer is to grace the city of Djambi with her sovereign presence. Some pretext about visiting a local retainer.” Today, she is wearing a pallid shift of cotton-candy cream, with broad sleeves that puddle on the desk. Terezi gives it an appreciative sniff. “I suppose we’ll be present for the festivities.”

“Fascinating!” Terezi opines through a mouthful of crumbs. “But not very clever,” she adds, swallowing.

“Quite the autocratic farce, I’d agree. If our gracious monarch possessed any portion of anatomy corresponding to a nose, we may rest assured it would be brutally self-severed at this juncture.” Daintily, Rose lifts the page of newsprint from the table and tosses it aside.

“Do I detect a sour whiff of sedition amidst those pretty, floral-scented words?” A sidelong grin, with a flash of teeth. “You’re a dangerous woman to associate with, Rose Lalonde.”

“Oh, she knows it,” shrugs Rose. “And she knows I’m right. It was a decision based solely on bravado, and those kinds of judgements tend to be the instantly regrettable sort. Visiting the city adjacent to the village where you recently conducted a massacre is scarcely what I would call sustainable social policy. If she’s set on the idea – which she is now, whether she likes it or not – she would do better to send a high-ranking official or two.” With that, she takes a demure sip of her drink; grimaces at the temperature.

This time, Terezi shows _all_ her teeth. “Objection, Your Tyranny! I would like to direct the attention of the court to Exhibit A: the front page of today’s _Portent_ officially affirming Her Majesty’s intentions to visit the city _in person_. The most juvenile of political statesmen would realise that this is a proclamation she cannot feasibly retract! Any effort on the behalf of the defendant to alter the proceedings by implying that a certain political duo ought to take the place of the Queen herself would smack of the most cynical attempt at self-advancement.”

The laptop bleeps on in the background. They ignore it.

Pensively, Rose takes another sip of tea – and it is most definitely for show, because Terezi can _tell_ how bitter it now tastes. “The defendant is unaware she was on trial. This scarcely resembles due process.”

“That’s how it usually works,” Terezi assures her.

Rose actually snorts into her teacup. “Quite. But I implore the prosecution to consider the fact that none of us are clear from the stain of egotism.” She aims a close-lipped smirk Terezi’s way.

Terezi gives this due consideration. Then, just because, she says: “The prosecution orders that the defendant go answer her pesterchum.”

“The defendant requests that the prosecution kindly save her sanctimony for the real felons.” And her voice is _sharp_ now; sharp enough to slice.

Oh, it is too _early_ for this. “You’re accustomed to dealing with traitors! Make this one realise he’s on trial.”

A wry smile from Rose. “He’ll never believe it.”

“Then I’ll contact him myself!” The trump card.

Rose now scowls rather magnificently. “No. I’ll do it.” _Yes!_ Chalk up another win to Terezi. Terezi makes a mental note to do this literally once they manage to find anything colourful enough at marketplace. Suffice to say that the city’s suppliers have no sense whatsoever of artistic priority in the field of commerce. “You go do whatever it is you do when I’m not around. Terrorise the populace or something.”

They both glance out the window, down to the intricate paved bric-a-brac of the city. Gray carapaces flit back and forth along the teeming streets: heads bowed; steps hurried. They do not stop to admire the elaborate crystal fretwork of Rose and Terezi’s towered dwelling, nor do they linger by the shade of the archway that frames the entrance. Terezi cannot blame them, either!

“We do that anyway.”

In an exasperated flicker of eyelashes, Rose lifts her gaze to the ceiling, presumably to ask patience of the thinning paint. “Do it some more.”

-

 _Years in the past, approximately two…_

Sprawled amidst a tangle of forest, perhaps a day’s flight from the capital of Chaomachia, the jutting crags of a broad mountain taper into four narrow peaks. These, in turn, surround a wide, circular plateau on which, that first time, absolutely nothing happens. Daylight is beginning to thin into dusk, and the shadowed rocks lie stark in the darkening air. As night falls like a threadbare carpet stretched across the sky, Davesprite arrives to find the plane deserted. Nothing but a cool wash of shadowed blues and deepening violets, overlapping like listless waves. And silence, but for the breeze.

No problem. He takes a moment to assess the surroundings. Fairly basic, really. Flat, with some indeterminate symbol etched large onto the surface of the floor. Clearly not natural; built to a purpose, then: apparently, to act as stadium for the fabled death-match between boy-bird hybrid and alien spacetroll.

A thin wave of nausea glides over him.

Not that he has any intention of killing.

It is then that a tumbling gust of wind buffets his face, and Aradia arrives on the breeze, beating back softly against the air. Slowly, she descends, perching cross-legged atop a boulder in order to oversee the battlefield. Davesprite gives her a brief, tight-lipped nod, which is exchanged for a bright-eyed blink and a smile. He glances away, scanning the designated arena once more, and alights on a cloaked silhouette at the edge of the platform.

Karkat Vantas? It seems so.

Warily, the two draw closer, pace matching pace as though magnetised. As he walks, Karkat’s hood slips back, revealing a grim, lowered face and two narrowed eyes, stark red against the gloom. Gripped in his fists are a pair of sleek sickles which he holds at chest-height, points raised. Yet as the two of them approach the centre of the wide plateau, he stops, almost hesitant, and makes as if to lower them.

“Yeah,” says Davesprite, letting his sword arm droop in turn. “Yeah, let’s _not_ do this –“

Even as the words are voiced, Karkat springs into action, taking advantage of the momentary lapse in focus in order to lunge at Davesprite with renewed determination. Caught off-guard, Davesprite can do little else but dodge, launching himself into the air out of reach of the whirling blades. Cursing, he promptly swoops back into the fray; katana screeches against sickle as they plunge into combat in earnest.

What follows is fast and ferocious: a clamour of steel, fists and staccato shouts which flood Davesprite’s ears like a symphony; acting as deafening counterpoint to the rush of his pulse and the harsh scrape of their combined breathing. This is worse than any combat he has faced before – worse than Noir, in a sense; worse in that he has no support – nor even any particular purpose: just the cool, measured scrutiny of Aradia, drinking in every detail of the fight like a deranged arbiter. And Karkat is quick; Karkat is everywhere; he is harsh, and hasty, and probably bleeding – because there have been countless blows, but none sharp enough to disrupt the hectic pattern of swing, parry and stab.

A couple of counter-attacks have them twined together, fighting closer than ever in a tangle of awkward limbs. Davesprite stares Karkat straight in the red-streaked face – and for a moment, he watches that fortitude break down and soften, and he swears that he hesitates for all of a second. A second in which Davesprite instinctually dives into action, sword slicing downwards before he can register where. It is only a moment later, when he realises he has caught Karkat - who crumples like a trodden can - in his extended arm, that he pieces together what happened. Bird’s heart beating so rapidly it hums, he tries to withdraw the knife – but it doesn’t budge.

Karkat gives a hiss of pain.

“Oh god,” stammers Davesprite. “Oh god, no, that is not what was meant to – fuck, Vantas, this is –“ Oh, he has completely lost it; these words are scarcely connected anymore, much less coherent -

“Dave.” Aradia is at his shoulder, touching his arm with a steadying hand. “It’s OK. This was supposed to happen.”

Bereft of a prop, Karkat sinks to the floor, and Davesprite falls with him, half involuntarily. No will any longer; just gravity. And he keeps – oh god, Davesprite keeps patting at the areas around the wound with scrabbling, ineffectual fingers, as though through sheer force of futility he might usher the blood back into its proper channels. All he does is smear it into impressionistic spirals on Karkat’s shirtfront; and it keeps on gushing, increasing, virtually limitless. Pooled bright against the dim dusk.

“Goddamn it, Strider,” Karkat mutters, and it is the first time Davesprite has heard him speak. His voice is broken and abrasive – but that must be the effects of the wound; perhaps it is slurred by blood. “You could have made it quicker.”

Wait.

“What.”

A moment passes, during which all that can be heard is the irregular scrape of Karkat’s laboured breathing. That and the muted clang of the realisation he swears is almost audible.

He suddenly understands a little more than he was meant to.

Rounding on Aradia, he rises, flicking droplets of blood from his fingernails. “He was never trying to fight me, was he? He was trying to rope me into some kind of assisted suicide-by-stealth –“

At this point, several things happen at once. Karkat’s eyes flicker shut, and his head falls slack to the floor. Aradia ventures an answer that is never finished. And, to the astonishment of all, Davesprite finds himself disappearing. Literally, melting right into the atmosphere. Every molecule of his frame seems to be straining for escape, criss-crossing the surface of his skin in a mesh of monumental agony. Cast into a vortex of gleaming, coruscating light, he is helpless to move, or struggle – think - breathe. He observes his surroundings crumble like a sugar cube, dissolving into a mass of liquid colour. And isn’t even spared the time to panic.

He awakes on the outskirts of a small village settlement, feeling as though his brain has seceded from his skull, understanding jack shit.


End file.
